Sometimes A Rough Start Makes For A Good Road
by Lacrimula Falsa
! Please read: This story is on hiatus, awating a major re-write until further notice. If you are new to this story, I would not recommand reading it until the rewrite, as it is incomplete and ends on something of a cliff-hanger. For further information please see chapter eight. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the X-Men universe. Written because of insistent plot bunnies, not to make profit.
Summary: "I would dearly love for you to stop warping all the metal in my flat at night. Best regards, the telepath living in the flat over yours" "And I'd like to sleep more than two hours without nightmares and to not have a number inked into my forearm. Tough luck. the camp survivor living in the flat under yours"
In hindsight, Charles regretted the note. But then, without it, he'd never have met Erik. Multi-chapter, AU.
A/N: A horde of plot bunnies is sitting on my brain, apparently. Which is why, while I should be working on my StarTrek, well, stuff, I am not. Aaand I'm not even into the X-Men fandom that much and this is very AU and…Argh! (But hey, my writer's block's gone, hooray.)
Chapter One - Night Terrors
[Charles]
Charles Xavier was a cheerful person, as everyone who knew him would tell you. Usually.
He -like most mutants these days- lived in a very nice little flat in the human-free part of the city.
His day job as a teacher at the local mutant-and-human school paid reasonably well.
He got along with his neighbours and drank tea at his favourite café every day after work.
However, his cheerful disposition had been suffering the last few days, ever since the flat directly under his had been rented out.
Clank.
When someone told him the new tenant was a metal bender ("Erik…Something, sounds German."), he'd been more than a little curious, wondering how his powers would look at work.
Seven days -and, more importantly, nights- later, he wondered no longer. And Charles was also no longer curious, exactly.
Screech.
Lying in his bed, wide awake, Charles debated whether he should turn on the light and look which part of his furniture was currently suffering.
He decided he'd know it soon enough, come morning. Or rather, come six o'clock, when his alarm would rouse him after not nearly enough hours of sleep.
The screeching quieted somewhat, and Charles drifted off again.
Only to jerk awake violently not ten minutes later, feeling something cold wrap around his neck.
This, he decided, was not good. Fumbling for the lamp on his bedside table, he yelped when his hand hit something hard and smooth that was not the lamp or the table.
Maybe it was his too vivid imagination, but he could have sworn the…thing around his neck tightened.
Panic flaring up in his chest, Charles fumbled around wildly for the lamp, not stopping even as something sharp cut the skin of his wrist.
After what felt like a breathless eternity, he felt the string of the lamp under his fingers.
Click.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the sudden illumination, Charles was faced with the realisation that there was, in fact, no freezing Boa constrictor wrapping around his neck.
The possibly lethal scarf he was sporting at the moment consisted of part of his metal bed frame. As did the sharp-edged thing that had scratched his wrist.
To his immense relief, the 'loop' around his neck was open to one side, so he could carefully slip his head out.
Still breathing heavily, he got out of bed on unsteady feet and surveyed the scene before him.
His bed frame, while miraculously still intact enough to stand, was bent and twisted almost beyond recognition. It reminded Charles of a giant metal spider laying on it's back, parts of it curling and sticking up like spindly legs.
Gazing around the room, he noticed that the only metal thing left completely undamaged was, ironically, the wheelchair he still hadn't returned to the hospital.
His amusement about that fact was short-lived, though, since the next thing to command his awareness was the fact that his feet were wet.
There was water pooling around his feet.
It took a moment for Charles to connect water and that annoying sound in the background to bent and twisted metal.
Once he did, however, the conclusion 'broken plumbing' was inevitable.
Cursing loudly, he all but sprinted into the bathroom.
The bathroom was flooded.
There were puddles of water everywhere. The bathtub was overflowing. As was the washbasin. The taps of both were lying on the floor, bent completely out of shape.
Charles Xavier was not the kind of man to easily resort to profanity.
But, well, fuck.
While well aware that his family's riches and his mother's diligence had seen to him receiving an excellent education, Charles couldn't help but think that knowing how to turn the water off in a bathroom was something even rich people should be taught.
Damn it all to hell.
Muttering under his breath, the telepath made his way back into his bedroom-slash-office and went to the telephone on his -thankfully wooden- desk to call someone from facility management.
About thirty minutes and a lengthy explanation over the phone later, Charles had managed to turn off the water.
The facility manager, or whatever he called himself,most likely thought Charles was a rich, to-stupid-to-live upper class twit.
He would be somewhat right too. At least about the 'rich and to-stupid-to-live' part. The telepath had nearly drowned in his own bathroom. (Or at least he had felt like it.)
He really did not want to think about renovating his bathroom. And possibly his bedroom floor too. At least he was rich enough not to care about how much that would cost.
Sometimes a family fortune, no matter how often he had been sorely tempted to burn all the money, came in quite handy.
Sighing deeply, he went to wring out the towel he had been using to wipe up the puddle of water in the bedroom.
The next thing he knew, Charles was hit by a wave of agony and a sudden flash of smokepaindeath that literally brought him to his knees.
Blinking slowly, feeling disoriented an dizzy, he got to his feet, very carefully, and took a deep breath.
This, he reminded himself, was neither shocking nor unexpected. His shields tended to slip a little whenever he was in a highly emotional state, or tired. He was certainly both at the moment.
The force of the telepathic impression had surprised him though. There was a special metal alloy built into the walls of the building that 'muffled' all telepathy, to allow the other tenants some privacy and the telepaths some peace of mind.
But then it was metal and looking at the state his metal furniture was in…
Charles took a moment to digest the fact that the thought of his home's walls possibly crumbling around him didn't distress him in the least.
Raven was right. He had no sense of self-preservation.
Skreeeeeeeeeee… Crack.
That was when the lamp on his desk bent and snapped in half.
He was tolerant. But not that tolerant.
Intellectually, he knew that insufficient control over their powers, especially while sleeping, was something many mutants suffered from.
But that lamp had been a gift from Raven that he knew she had run her feet bloody to get, and that was just too much.
Feeling the need to vent his anger somehow and lacking a better alternative, he snatched up a piece of paper and a pen.
I would dearly love for you to stop warping all the metal in my flat at night.
Best regards,
the telepath living in the flat over yours
Feeling ridiculously accomplished, the telepath folded the paper in half.
Now to deliver it.
Once Charles got back from slipping the paper under the metal bender's door, he couldn't help but think that maybe the whole thing with the note was a tad childish and that he should have thought it trough for more than ten seconds.
Well, too late for that now.
A/N: Here's the first part. Next chapter, we meet Erik. Feedback on this would be highly appreciated.